Two days after my wedding, my mother-in-law fired the longtime maid, threw her stained apron at me, and sneered, “You married into this family to serve it, not to sit around like a queen.” My husband watched silently as she ordered me to clean their mansion from dawn to midnight. I calmly packed my bags and walked toward the door—just before the maid slipped something into my suitcase and whispered, “Leave now. They’re terrified you’ll discover what’s on this drive.”

The iron gates of the Montgomery estate swung shut behind my car with a heavy, metallic clang that felt like a sentence being commuted.

Rain had begun to pelt the windshield, blurring the red taillights of the few vehicles on the coastal highway. My hands gripped the leather steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I didn't head toward my parents' house. They were quiet, gentle retirees who worshipped the Montgomery name, convinced I had married into pure nobility. Telling them the truth right now would only induce panic. Instead, I pulled into the parking lot of a quiet, upscale boutique hotel downtown.

After checking in under my maiden name, Sarah Vance, I locked the heavy oak door of the room, flipped the deadbolt, and slid the security chain into place.

Only then did I allow my knees to buckle.

I sank onto the edge of the king-sized bed, shivering despite the room's warm heating. The last forty-eight hours replayed behind my eyelids in agonizing detail—Lachlan’s soft smiles during the ceremony, Cordelia’s razor-sharp criticism at the rehearsal dinner, and finally, the stained apron thrown at my face like an insult.

They hadn’t wanted a wife for Lachlan. They had wanted a submissive domestic buffer to absorb Cordelia’s malice.

A sudden rustle from my carry-on bag broke the silence.

I remembered Bernardet’s trembling hands in the foyer, the frantic urgency in her voice before Cordelia had shoved her toward the door.

I unzipped the small side pocket of my leather bag. Inside lay a sleek, slate-grey USB flash drive. It was unbranded, heavy for its size, and cold to the touch.

I pulled out my personal laptop from my bag, set it on the desk, and booted it up. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long, heavy moment.

Whatever was on this drive had cost Bernardet her decade-long job. It had made her risk everything just to pass it to a woman she barely knew.